


Migraine

by dyingpoet



Series: Sprace one shots [25]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 00:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17131370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyingpoet/pseuds/dyingpoet
Summary: It's flu season in New York, or so Spot is told





	Migraine

**Author's Note:**

> whats happening?? why mm i posting two fics in a day?? None of this is real it's cool yall,, go back to sleep yall

“Ya sure you wanna go out today, Spot?”

“We can cover ya-”

A sharp look from their leader shut the room of Brooklyn newsies up pretty quick, and they all were suddenly very occupied with other things as Spot made his way toward the door of the lodging house. 

Mumbling to himself, Spot steadied himself against the door frame before turning around. “I ain’t needin’ charity from any’a ya, I’ll be fine out there, been sellin’ the longest outta anyone here.”

He really hated to admit it but Spot could hear the weakness of his own voice, and if the faces of the newsies said anything, they could hear it to. But, none of them could make Spot do anything he didn’t want to do, and they all knew it. So, they filed past him one by one out onto the street, not even Shooter looking up to meet his gaze. 

Taking a moment for himself, Spot let his shoulders sag for a brief second, the pounding in his head blurring his vision for a second. He was probably running a fever, but he couldn’t miss selling, at a time like this, especially. It was getting colder sooner than it normally did in New York, and food had been short; they needed everyone they could selling so they could scrap up enough before winter. Besides, he could think of a dozen newsies who could use a new pair of shoes, or a coat, or anything really. Leaders didn’t take off and he wasn’t planning on it. 

Biting his lip harshly, Spot screwed his eyes shut and turned out to face the street, wind whipping his face. “Shit.”

“What was that, Spot?” Shooter called from the distribution line, cocking his head knowingly.

Spot squared his shoulder and glared at his second in command. “Nothin’ for ya listenin’ ears, kid.”

Shooter snorted but turned back to his conversation with one of the other newsies, leaving Spot standing just outside of lodging, letting his eyes adjust slowly to the harsh morning light. 

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

 

“Blazin’ fire leaves tenants homeless!”

The phony headline jerked Spot’s head up from where it’d been lolling onto his chest. That didn’t sound like one of his boys, and it was too close to the bridge to be one of the new guys. None of them lied  _ that  _ badly anyway. 

That left the one and only, who strolled up to Spot with a smile on his face as he flicked a nickel into the hair and caught it, placing it face down in his hands. 

“Heads or tails, Spotty?” Racetrack asked lightly, “I know ya ain’t much of a gambler, but ya got a fifty fifty chance, or so I hear.”

Spot let out a gruff exhale in response, Race’s voice was tinny in his ears and he wasn’t up for their normal conversation. It must have shown on his face. 

Cocking his head, Race took a few rushed steps forward and frowned at Spot. “What’s eatin’ you? You’se lookin’ like the dead, like one of them ghosts Elmer keeps seein’ in the park-”

“I get it, Race,” Spot snapped, dodging Race’s hand when he tried to feel his forehead. He’d moved too fast though, and his ears rang hard. The pavement was spinning underneath him and he steadied himself against the wall at his back. 

“Woah, woah,” Race stuttered, lowering himself to look into Spot’s narrowed eyes. “You really ain’t good to be sellin’ Spot, you oughta get back to lodging before ya pass out or somethin’-”

Spot shook his head quickly and shoved Race away weakly. “Nah, I’m fine, too many of the littles are there for me to go back, can’t be gettin’ anyone sick.”

Race was silent for a few second, and with Spot steadying his gaze on the cracked street beneath him, he was was pretty sure Race had left. He didn’t mind too much, a sale was a sale, and Spot was  _ fine _ , really. 

His stomach rolled theh, and Spot barely managed to bite back a groan before he started to slide down the wall to sit, knees giving up more than anything. 

“Fuck,” he gritted out, voice shaking, harder this time than earlier. If he got sick in the street someone might call a cop, he needed to fucking get  _ up _ . 

But it felt like someone was twisting at his insides and getting up didn’t seem like it was going to do anything but speed up his getting sick. It felt weak, to be curled up on the sidewalk like that, and if he had an money he’d be afraid of getting mugged, he wasn’t even looking up. 

Time passed, he wasn’t sure how much, it could have been an hour or three and it would have felt the same. Mentally, he was berating himself for getting this sick in the first place. He’d seen boys go down just like he was now, and felt the same as he had this morning beforehand. It was his dumbass fault, but it didn’t help the pain shooting through his head to know that. 

Footsteps approached just as another wave of nausea hit, and despite the pain Spot jerked his head up, gasping at the sharp light. 

A shadow fell across his eyes. “C’mon Spotty, I’m takin’ ya back.”

Race’s voice ground against his ears and Spot squinted up at him. “I told ya, I ain’t going back to-”

“To lodging, I know,” Race drawled, foot tapping quickly on the cobblestone. “I’m bringin’ ya back with me.”

That was a riot, and if Spot was in better shape he might have laughed. “You’se funny, Racer.”

He didn’t get a response before Race was slowly lifting him up by the arms, grabbing one of Spot’s arms and slinging it over his shoulder. His head spun and he couldn’t look at anything but the ground, but he was standing. 

“I’se a riot, it’s a blessin’ really.”

They were walking, god knows where, and Spot’s mind tried to figure out exactly where they were going, but his head had lost all sense of direction, and all the streets looked them same when you were just looking at the pavement. 

Race was talking, Spot knew that even though he couldn’t make out quite what he was saying. His voice settled on his ears like a guitar with a broken string and Spot was about to tell him to cut it out when they came to an abrupt stop. 

“Don’t hate me Spotty.”

Before Spot could ask what he meant, he felt himself being hoisted up onto a step, and then another, and another, and if he could have clocked race one he would have, because the kid was dragging him across the goddamn  _ bridge. _

“N’ wa’,” Spot slurred, the noise from carriages and the river itself clogging his head so that his own voice came out thick and slowly, as if from somewhere very far away.

Race kept walking though, and slowly Spot could feel his legs weakening underneath him. He hadn’t meant to get this sick, he really hadn’t, he didn’t mean to. 

He was jostled suddenly and he felt his stomach rock in time with the pang in his head; he couldn’t bite back the groan this time. 

“You good Spotty? We just gotta get across the bridge and then it’s gonna be okay, Jack’s gotta…”

Race’s voice, and the sound of the carriages, the river, and even the ringing in his own ears faded away, and Spot felt himself fall very suddenly. 

Or maybe that was just his head playing tricks. No way to tell though, it was all blackness after that.

* * *

 

There were hushed voices and Spot was  _ hot _ . 

“Demasiado caliente, quitalos,” he groaned, kicking at the blankets someone had wrapped tightly around him. Maybe it was his mother, the last time he was sick it had been his mother who’d put the blankets over him. 

“Get lost,” a voice hissed, and Spot cringed at the sound. Everything hurt. 

A hand came to rest on his forehead and the heat stung. 

“He’s runnin’ a pretty high fever.”

“He gonna be okay, Jack?”

In the back of Spot’s mind, he could see Jack, through narrow, clouded vision, and someone else next to him. Jack shouldn’t be here.

“I’m surprised you got him all the way across the bridge by yourself,” Jack said, either not noticing or acknowledging Spot’s gaze. “‘Specially since he was passed out.”

The whole room was too hot and Spot’s stomach twisted painfully in protest.

“I know-shit I think he’s gonna be sick again.”

The other voice, Spot couldn’t see who it was but he knew he knew them, was right, and a hand tugged Spot up and let him lean over the bed. 

The same hand rubbed his back slowly as he got sick, coughing blindly and spitting into something out of his slim line of vision. He remembered the last time he was sick like this, we has at home, she was  _ there _ . 

“Gracias, mamá,” he slurred, he swore she’d been  _ there _ .

“What’s he speakin’?”

“Spanish.”

“He do that all that much?”

“In his sleep, sometimes.”

The voices were quiet again for a moment, and Spot felt his stomach settle. He was so tired.

“He’s gonna be fine, Racer.”

“Yeah, I know.”

* * *

 

“Look who’s finally awake!”

Narrowing his eyes against the light, Spot groaned and looked up, right into the smiling face of Jack Kelly. “What’s-”

“You’se sick,” Jack said simply, kneeling down to get eye level with Spot. “Race dragged ya over from Brooklyn, said somethin’ about you not wantin’ to get your boys sick.”

Nodding slowly, Spot propped himself up on his elbows, glaring at Jack when he made to push him back down. “How long I been out?”

Jack’s eyes flicked to the doorway. “‘Bout a day and half.”

“What’s goin’ on in Brooklyn?”

“Shooter’s handlin’ it,” Jack answered, “Race said he got the whole thing settled before he brought ya over, and I sent a few of my boys over this mornin’ to make sure.”

That was good at least, and Spot bit his lip, very aware then that he was drenched in sweat. “When are ya plannin’ on lettin’ me go?” he asked dryly, puffing his chest out slightly at Jack’s eye roll. 

“When you’se able to stand, at least,” Jack shot back. He rocked back on his heels and snatched a mug from the table behind them, thrusting it into Spot’s hands. “Drink some water, he was tryin’ to get ya to get some down earlier, but you kept gettin’ sick most every time.”

Grimacing at the idea of getting sick in front of Jack, and Race it sounded like, Spot gulped down the water, letting out a low whine when Jack took the cup back. 

“Drink it too fast and ya won’t keep it down,” he chided, pointedly ignoring Spot flipping him off. 

Laying back, Spot tried to remember bits and pieces of the last couple days, coming up relatively empty handed. He remembered passing out, and it go hazy after that. He herd Jack shuffling and forced his eyes up.

“I gotta go sell for the day,” Jack said, cracking his back as he stood. “You should try and get some sleep, Race’ll be back later to get ya water and stuff.”

Spot nodded.

“He’s been awful worried, Spot.”

Not meeting Jack’s eye, Spot nodded. He knew.

* * *

 

Spot woke next to a loud bang and a string of curses. 

“Stupid fuckin’ table, god fuckin’-”

“Language, Racer,” Spot cut in, propping himself up to grin at a very frustrated Race. “Ya gotta show respect around the ill.”

Race rolled his eyes as he picked up whatever had scattered off of the side table, his hands were shaking though, and Spot tilted his head as he watched him settle down awkward on the floor near the front of the bed.

“You okay?”

A bitter bark of a laugh escaped Race and he looked up at Spot. His eyes were tired, bloodshot too. “Are ya really the one that should be askin’ that?”

It was meant as a joke, and Spot had to take a second to gather his, still admittedly shaky, thoughts before he continued. “Someone’s gotta, I suppose.”

He was even more thrown off when Race wouldn’t meet his eye, and weakly he tapped at his shoulder. “What’s eatin’ you, Higgins?”

Race stayed silent for a few second before mumbling something out.

“What?” Spot asked, straining to hear. A bit painfully so, actually.

“I just,” Race started, letting out a puff of air, “I sorta thought you wasn’t gonna make it through the night, when I got you back here.”

The confession was oddly innocent, and Spot snorted before letting his head fall back. “Damn, Higgins.”

“What?” Race protested, sitting up so he could look Spot in the eyes. “You ain’t lookin’ so hot yourself, y’know-”

“No, no,” Spot cut him off, grinning a little. “You’se gettin’ soft, s’all.”

Race rolled his eyes and Spot saw him jerk his hand back when he made to punch him in the shoulder. “Like you ain’t.”

Spot shrugged. “I ain’t, you’se the one almost cryin’-”

“I ain’t cryin’!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spot said, looking up at Race lightly. “Whatever ya say.”

Mumbling something in Italian, Race got up and sat up on the bed next to Spot, yelping when Spot moved over and pushed him to lay down. 

“You’se lookin’ tired.”

“And I’se the one gettin’ soft.”

Spot chuckled weakly and curled into Race’s side. He could always blame it on the circumstances, having a fever and all. But he had to say, it was awful nice falling asleep like that, Race running his hands through his hair. 

“ Te amo,” he whispered quietly. The edge of sleep was coming on. 

“T i amo.”

It was awful nice. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope yall liked?? i didnt edit it much but i think it like it??
> 
> leave comments/kudos and ill owe you my life


End file.
